A Fighter
by Wolfstorm7
Summary: "Jew," the man hissed, and the single word was a blow as strong as a club to the ear. "What do you have to fight for?"


So… I couldn't help myself. This book is just… fffffff I HAVE NO WORDS.

Anyways. Enjoy.

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><p>Max Vandenburg was a fighter. Even the day he died, he rose in bed to meet me with his fists, <em>I<em>, the opponent that none can fend off eternally. But this man tried.

The day they caught him, he fought harder than he had in his life.

It was freezing cold, October, and Max was staggering through knee-high dead brush. On the way from one safe stopover to a city that he hoped would give him sanctuary, he was a corpse of a man; shaking legs, fingers grayed with frostbite, and a scruffy beard crawling over half of his face.

Voices sounded in the trees nearby and his pulse began to throb with the fury of a trapped creature. Had someone given him away? His mind raced with the names of potential traitors… Footsteps approached, and his thoughts scattered. He stepped forward, not daring to breathe. A sob of terror was bundled in his throat. The world was eerily silent.

Then the chaser started to run, by the rush of leaves and whipping of branches, and the sound of the footsteps, and Max was off. He could outrun these terrible spirits, as they flew behind in eternal pursuit, he could-

A claw of fingers in his back slung him down to the frozen earth, and he flipped to see a young man new and green from boyhood, with a pathetic scribble of whiskers on the tip of his chin. The boy wore a uniform. "Why were you running?" But Max didn't answer. They both knew.

The boy's eyes were dark, Hitler dark, and bittered like ancient glass.

Suddenly, the Führer stepped in and replaced the boy. The leather gloves that usually hung around his neck were missing.

"It's been a while," Max whispered, his hands curling into clubs of skin and bone by his sides. Then he attacked. His body wriggled forwards. Under the force of his flying fists, his shoulders rolled like a wave. The Führer took a step back, as if he had forgotten their many previous matches. Then his black eyes sparked, he blocked the buzzing fists, and delivered a blow to Max's chin. Max retaliated instinctively, hurling himself forwards with a new, desperate life. They circled, blocked, spun.

Suddenly, Max fell under a wooden strike, and the Führer's boots jabbed into his ribs, into his back and head. The blows fell like hail onto Max, each drop melting into a small round bruise. Finally, Max managed to stagger up, not yet beaten and not yet alive. He whipped his fists to meet the Führer's face. There was a crack, and the Führer fell back, his jaw skewed to the side. Blood spattered Max's chest. "Jew," the man hissed, and the single word was a blow as strong as a club to the ear. "What do you have to fight for?"

_Liesel. _"Your death," Max snarled, animal overtaking him, and he leapt upon the Führer. He punched the man until his knuckles split, and only then did he stumble drunkenly back. The Führer smiled, blood running on his teeth.

And then Max was looking at the boy again, the boy with dark eyes. The boy's jaw hung like a hinge and his eyes were closed. Blood spooled rusty spirals around his head.

Max shook. He turned.

As he did, another Nazi soldier stepped from the bushes. He raised a gun and shot once, twice. Max's leg was suddenly burning, as a bullet had melted across his outer thigh. He slowly crumpled, a soft cry still on his lips, but only a small, silent breath escaped. _Liesel._

He was vaguely aware of a man standing over him.

*****A NOTE ON DEFEAT*****

**Max never could win.**

**A man stood over him.**

**The man's voice rang through the cities and the man's face appeared on the bark of trees.**

**His words ran in the veins of all who listened.**

~oO0Oo~oO0Oo~oO0Oo~oO0Oo~

I had seen Max struggle, and I admired him. When I was visiting a camp later, as I often did, I saw him again. He was slumped miserably near the fence, his skin scabbing and mottled, his ribs, sharp valleys. And I couldn't help it – to see a fighter so trampled, it broke my heart.

I deviated from my path and transformed into a small bird. I fluttered down to perch near his head.

I'm sure Max thought he was mad.

"You can never go back, you know," I said.

"I know," he whispered.

"You'll never see her again."

"I know."

I scanned the camp, the people squatting in filth, their bodies burning with fever. Sunken stomachs and horse eyes, black. I almost never made offers. But something possessed me.

"Then why don't you come with me?" I slowly outstretched my wing. My dark feathers fluttering like a flag.

He opened his mouth, and I caught a glimpse of rotted teeth. No sound came out. His hand stirred slightly in the dirt, as if about to rise.

His eyes were glowing, and I saw the sky reflected in them; not the muddy expanse above us, but a blue sky with a rope cloud and dripping sun.

"Never," he finally managed to whisper. He closed his hand into a fist and tried to lift it, but his strength gave out and it died limp in the dirt.

"Another day," I said, almost a promise.

Then I gathered the souls, as I had to, and they cried with relief. From above I could see the man by the fence, clinging to life.

I should have expected it.

After all, Max was a fighter.


End file.
